


Jealous Is A Verb

by lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mexico, Mild Language, Multi, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles, Rachel and Bass take out their aggressions on each other in Mexico. | Spoilers for 210: Three Amigos</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealous Is A Verb

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution nor am I associated with any of the cast or crew.
> 
> A/N: Butters asked for RM2 'Three Amigos' porn. Hence, this fic. It fits in between the bar scene and the three of them around the campfire.

The sky was that deep grey of twilight, shot through with orange as the sun set on Northern Mexico. It could have been romantic, actually, in spite of the tequila-stained blanket separating Rachel from the splintered bed of their stolen wagon. Miles stood between her thighs, buried inside her, (stupid, like they were sixteen or something, but he kept _looking_ at her and- Rachel sighed, trying not to think beyond the next ten minutes.)

He had a knee propped up on the bed and one hand braced at her hip, panting against her breast with each thrust. Rachel ran her fingers through his hair, relishing his hot, damp breath through her shirt. God, it was going straight to her head, that old stupid ache for him.

She moaned, wetting her lips, and they probably looked like overgrown teenagers out there in the open, half-dressed and debauched. But why should she care, when there was no one around to see? No one but-

Rachel peeked an eye open at Bass, fifteen feet away, his arms full of scavenged firewood. He’d been standing there, watching, unabashed, for at least three or four minutes. She wasn’t sure what it said about her that she’d let him. Miles thought he would take longer with the wood, that they could get away with this. She’d have argued but, let’s be honest, it was more fun to fuck with him. They would never be even, she and Bass, not after eight years and two family members and whatever shreds of her sanity were left.

“You better wipe that look off your face. Somebody might think you’re jealous.” She arched an eyebrow, going for composed, even as Miles thrust deep inside her and she almost bit her tongue.

Miles started, lifting a furrowed brow and confusion-glazed eyes to stare at her. “Huh?”

Her nails dug into the back of his neck involuntarily, a choked gasp of pleasure escaping her parted lips (it always amused her that the same verbs could go for sex or torture.) “Not you. Bass.”

He jerked around, swearing, his hands scrabbling at her thighs. “Fuck, Bass, get out of here, you fucking pervert-”

“You’re the one out here begging to get caught,” Bass shot back, dropping the firewood at his feet with a clatter and gesturing to the twilight-dimmed landscape.

Miles shifted, moving to extract himself from her legs. She clung to him instead, heels digging into his thighs. “Rach-”

Behind him, Bass shrugged out of his shirt and left it balled up on the pile of wood.

“No. Let him.” It slipped out before she could think. Not about the consequences: she thought about the effects of _she_ and _him_ existing together every second. Rather, before she could think how Miles would feel about that, of her spreading her legs for his best friend, for her captor.

Miles’ jaw clenched and she watched him slide from frustrated to resigned to just this side of done-with-everybody’s-shit. “Why does no one point out my bad ideas until it’s too late?” Well now wasn’t _that_ the question he should have asked fifteen years ago? Or twenty, or twenty-five, for that matter.

But for all the third-degree and bruised ego he could have given her, he only pressed a stubble-rough kiss to her jaw and backed off, leaving her a bit slick and empty.

Bass stepped closer and she drew her eyes over the line of his v-neck, feeling her mouth water and her body shudder, and, really, feeling more treasonous than anything else. She was so busy staring at him, imagining both the things he could do to her and the things he had done to her, Rachel hardly noticed when Miles took her by both hands and pulled her to her feet. He settled on the wagon, jeans slung no doubt uncomfortably low against the stained blanket, and drew her back into him.

The wood and metal edge dug into her ass, feet dangling just above the ground, and Miles brushed her hair off her shoulder. Bass rested his fists on either side of them, eyes narrowed at her, and this she could do: she stared back without flinching, though her eyes stung and her nipples hardened beneath her shirt.

Rachel lifted a hand to brace on his shoulder, squeezing Miles’ thigh as he lifted her that scant few inches until his cock was just there, sliding between her legs, just- She moaned, Bass guiding her back so Miles could push inside her again, the angle sharper than before. She thought maybe she saw stars but it might just have been hell freezing over.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not the first woman between you two? Oh! Right. You had a kid with his fiancée.”

“Tell me, Rachel, was Ben as good in bed as Miles? Or did you only choose him for his brains?” Bass’ voice was rough and low and he was barely even touching her, just the backs of his fingers on her stomach, but the electricity between them, the magnetism, or whatever other heated romance novel cliché, was making her a bit weak in the wit.

Rachel’s muscles tightened, hands clenching into almost-fists, and Miles groaned into her shoulder, free hand kneading at her breast through two thin layers of fabric. “Do you have to bait each other? No one’s ever gonna win,” he mumbled.

She slid her hand up to the back of his neck, gasping and moaning and wondering at his ability to boil everything down to its simplest solution. They _could_ just refrain from talking, from being in the same vicinity. She _could_ just be content (not happy, too late for happy, but _content_ ), with Miles and pretend the past was a bad dream. But something about him, about that lean, tension-strung body and that biting ability to insult, sucked her in. “You going to make yourself useful?” Rachel gasped, eyes glued to Bass even as she fisted a hand in Miles’ hair.

Bass’ smirk was so quick it almost seemed involuntary.

His hands tightened on her waist, jaw clenching, and she shuddered as he skimmed across the tender skin stretched over her ribs. Battered palms cupped her breasts, thumb stretching out to graze a nipple. It was just getting there, sparks of pleasure skittering through her veins, when he stilled, the feel of Miles’ thrusts all that anchored her to what was happening.

She lifted her head, a whine forming at the back of her throat, to find him staring over her shoulder at Miles. She knew what he was probably seeing, the beads of sweat on Miles’ forehead, the intense focus of half-lidded eyes. He’d (probably) never had that intensity turned on him; he’d (definitely) always been jealous that it was constantly turned on her.

“You want to kiss him for me?” Rachel snapped, a sneer settling into the lines of her face.

“Fuck. Don’t drag me into this.”

Bass’ hand slid up from her breast to her throat and she had a flash of panic, eyes blown wide, the memories of these men she knew too well seizing tight around her lungs. But he only cupped her cheek, brushing a kiss onto her forehead and only tearing his eyes away from Miles’ when she was sure they could both feel the thudding of her heart.

“Think it’s a little late for that, Miles.”

Behind her, Miles ignored him, his hands cradling her tight to him, mouth scraping and sucking at her wrist, her fingers still caught at the back of his neck. She found herself staring at Bass’ throat, watched it bob as he swallowed hard over arousal before his eyes dropped abruptly to hers. Rachel flinched; she hoped it didn’t show. He leaned over her, over them, and she could feel Miles gasp into the curve of her neck, her thighs spread around them both, stretched and tantalizing.

She instinctively drew away from him, slinking deeper into Miles’ arms. Her body, though, screamed for a hundred different things from him.

“What do you want?” Bass asked, almost a whisper in the near-dark, his lips mere inches from hers. “Mrs. Matheson?”

Miles stuttered behind her and she slapped a hand around his wrist without looking, stalling his poorly hidden desire to punch the other man’s lights out. Slowly releasing him, she braced her hand on Bass’ shoulder with a harsh, steady pressure and he dropped to his knees, smirk lifting the corners of his eyes.

“Miles not any good at head?”

She dug her nails into his neck and he smacked at her hand like she was a fly, ducking his head to press warm, dry lips to the no-longer-quite-flat plane of her stomach. Rachel twisted, her fingers in Miles’ hair as she looked at him, figuring even he, with his stunted emotional development, could read the mixed shame, apology and arousal on her face.

“What is this for you? Therapeutic?” he hissed in her ear, shifting his hips. Even at the awkward angle, she heard an unintended moan escape her lips. Miles was always just a little thicker than was comfortable, his jeans digging into the backs of her thighs a little too insistent. Too much, in a good way; that had always been the problem with them.

Bass chewed a bruise on the inside of her thigh and she curled her hand into a fist, digging crescents into her palm in irritation. As if he hadn’t marked her up enough in his day. Still. God, he’d always known what to do with his evolution-given talents.

His tongue flicked at her clit, unexpected, and she all but slid off the wagon, catching herself with fingers in those damn curls. Shoving her tongue in Miles’ mouth, at least partly to bury the whimper Bass had just dragged out of her, she finally muttered between irregular kisses, “Don’t know. But don’t tell me it isn’t satisfying.”

Miles stroked his tongue along hers, leaving fingerprints on her hip. He jerked beneath her all of a sudden, shuddering and gasping into her shoulder; she wasn’t sure if it was the way she’d tightened on him, hot and wet in the cool Mexican evening, or if Bass had drawn his tongue from focusing on her down to the base of Miles’ cock, just where it disappeared inside her.

Either way, to feel him loosen his grip on that cold, detached hardness they’d all three perfected, and _inside her_ no less, felt… incredible? Unnerving? Terrifying? He hooked an arm around her ribcage, large rough hand settling over her breast, and by the way he squeezed and clung and bucked, no, she didn’t think he could honestly say it wasn’t satisfying.

Rachel arched her back, hands yanking on Bass’ hair and Miles’ shirt and she screwed her eyes shut at the feel of them moving out of sync, using her, like some analogy of their whole goddamn lives. She thought she might have muttered, or possibly moaned, a quiet chant of _yesyesyesyes_ under her breath but would never admit to it. Her head lolled back against his shoulder and Miles cussed, maybe the only two words he actually knew in Spanish.

“Offoffoff-” It didn’t register at first, his mumbled string of orders and curses, but Bass seemed to get it. His hands came up around her hips, dragging her off Miles with little warning or concern; behind her, he made a grateful sort of moan and finally it dawned on her, the slick slap of skin as he came in his hand.

Bass was staring at her, blue eyes crackling, and she clung to his chest, boneless but on-edge. When his stare dropped to her lips though, she pinched his arm and glared as fiercely as she could manage when all she really wanted was his cock or his fingers or some part of him inside her, stretching her. “Don’t you dare kiss me.”

“Right, whores don’t kiss. Too personal.” The jab lacked weight, given the contrast of his rough, aroused, out-of-place voice and such an obligatory insult.

Miles groaned and she could just imagine him running a hand over his face, rolling his eyes. He reached out to gather her in his arms, fingers stroking through once-silky blond curls. He mouthed along her jaw, silent, until she turned, broke her stare with Bass to kiss him, hand on his cheek. His teeth worried at her bottom lip, tongue sliding between them, loose and relaxed. Rachel wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry: his kisses were normally focused, intense. This was something else, something not really intended for her. But it was her fault anyway, for pulling Bass between them.

Judging by the strangled gasp, by the way Bass’ fist connected with the rickety, wooden bench, their little show was having its intended effect.

Lifting his head, eyebrow arched in that perfect Matheson disdain, Miles flicked a look at his friend. “Aren’t you supposed to be making yourself useful?”

Rachel wasn’t looking but she knew the put-out glare he must have been given all too well, even before Bass’ curls were brushing her cheek, his mouth hot on her collarbone and three fingers crammed knuckle deep inside her. Her hips lifted, eyes drifting shut, lips pressing hard together to muffle a moan; her hand wrapped so tight around his upper arm she hoped she might even leave a bruise.

With her utterly distracted, Miles reached around her and she could hear the scrabble and clatter of a belt buckle being undone. Bass moaned against her pulse point, shoving her leg up, heel balanced precariously on the edge of the wagon bed, so he could press closer. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, the heady knowledge of Miles’ hand wrapped-

Rachel bit her lip as Bass curled a finger inside her, yanking her t-shirt down with his thumb so he could get at the skin beneath. Her back arched into him, breasts crushed up to his mouth, panting against his temple.

God, it was too much, and if she didn’t come soon, she feared she’d be reduced to begging _Bass_ for release, reduced to the desperate desire to press her lips to his and taste him, like they were lovers or something. Sliding a hand between them, blind, she ran a fingertip over her clit and shuddered, less from the pressure as much from the way her wrist bumped into the tangle of Bass’ hand palm up inside her and his cock wrapped in Miles’ large fist.

She came with a muffled whimper, nails in Miles’ wrist and her own hand clamped over her mouth like she could keep in the confession that Bass could affect her so. She leaned back into the warm, broad chest behind her, noticing for the first time since she’d spotted Bass standing there with the firewood that her bare legs were freezing and that Miles smelled addictively like cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. She hardly noticed when Bass came, though he sank heavily into her, adding a few new stains to the stolen blanket.

They lay there in a heap, heartbeats slowing, until she shoved at Bass, returning to herself with the steadying of her pulse. “Get the hell off me,” Rachel mumbled, though her teeth quickly snapped into her lip when he drew his fingers out, leaving her bereft.  

She watched through slatted eyes as he tucked himself back in and wiped his fingers on his jeans. Still unbuttoned, belt hanging open, he ran both hands through his hair. “Fuck, you two are more messed up than I am.”

Miles shifted her aside, jerking his jeans up as he stood off the wagon. Snatching her pants from the ground, he tossed them at her, attention directed at Bass. “Shut up and get the fire started. Got to get some sleep and be back across the border first thing in the morning.”

Bass grabbed his arm, fingers closed tight around his wrist, and Rachel had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep from thinking of Miles’ hand wrapped just like that around his cock instead. “No. Son of a bitch, Miles, I’ve got to try again. He’s my _kid_.”

Miles shrugged him off, pointing to the firewood with a raised eyebrow. She straightened herself, buttoning her pants and tugging her jacket back on as they bickered under their breath about the fire and the campsite and who had ruined whose life.

“It kills you, doesn’t it?” Rachel asked finally, breaking through the snap-crackle of Bass lighting the fire. “That’s why we’re here. It’s not about your _kid_ ; it’s about Miles devoting his attention to something else, and you needing a stand-in to stroke your ego and your fragile little heart.”

“Rachel?” Miles asked, voice strained and weary, and she lifted her head in question. “Please shut up.”

She did, for a few minutes, but then Bass was starting in on Connor again and she was making broad, out-of-character assumptions just because he was pissing her off and you’d never have guessed they’d all been wrapped around each other a few minutes earlier.

They had crawled off to their respective sides of the fire maybe an hour earlier, the uncharacteristic quiet utterly disorienting.

Scratchy blankets were pulled up over her shoulder, Miles’ hand tucked against her sternum, calloused fingers brushing the tender curve of breast. She shifted against him, uncontrollable hair catching on his rough face.

“Do we have to go after him?” Rachel asked finally, breaking the not-quite-silent stillness.

They’d both known for a while that Bass had left camp but clung to the desire to stay quiet and pretend there was no imminent chaos.

“You know we do.” Miles’ voice was coarse and rumbly against her shoulder and even though they’d just done things that would have made her blush twenty years ago, before she could be shocked, that feeling of him right up against her back, warm and lethargic, felt more intimate than anything else.

She rolled over, curling her body into his chest. “Why?”

“’Cause I love him.”

Rachel swallowed hard, fingers twisted in his shirt, quiet for long enough she figured he probably thought she hadn’t heard. She didn’t lift her head, afraid her eyes might be wet, the traitors. “Well. Look who’s getting honest in his old age.”


End file.
